Chapter 3: There and Back Again
Our boys get to relax a little and then Mycroft happens.
"Admiral." Captain Holmes sneers at his brother as they step out of the shuttle pod and onto the deck of the Proto-Tethys. The Admiral's crew stands at attention and snaps their salutes crisply when the three men stroll through their ranks towards the entryway. Mycroft and Sherlock take long strides in step with one another, John moves with his own steady march a little behind them. For some odd reason, he finds himself watching the siblings' movements. Usually seeming so different, from here even their uniforms seem to drape the same way, of course their shirts are different colors: the Admiral wears a distinguished hunter green and naturally, Sherlock's is sapphire blue. Another difference jumps to John's notice: Sherlock's shirt hangs loose from his trousers, whilst Mycroft's is tucked in neatly. It has been so long since they have had to dress for anyone other than themselves that he has to keep his eyes from straying to Sherlock's arse. John figures the Admiral's clothes are probably pressed within an inch of their lives; of course, that makes him snicker childishly and the sound echoing off of the cool gray corridors draws their attentions to him.
"Ambassador Watson, is everything alright?" Admiral Holmes turns and regards John with a slightly raised, and neatly plucked, eyebrow. Behind Mycroft, Sherlock is actually rolling his eyes.
"Yes. All is satisfactory. Admiral." He adds quickly. Now that they are back on an IA ship, they have to slip back into formality; at least around the Admiral's crew. John falls silent as he steps into a lift behind the other two men. There is the whooshing sound of air and the door slides closed in front of them. With a sigh from one and a deep breath from the other, the Holmes brothers lean against the lift. Sherlock takes his typical pose: back pressed against the wall, one knee bent, sole of that boot pressed flat perpendicular to his bum; he hangs his head from his shoulders as if he exhausted. John knows better. He has seen this same posture before.
Mycroft just leans in and crosses his arms over his chest. "Quarters or bridge?" He asks Sherlock pointedly, though he never takes his eyes off of the doors in front of him.
Sherlock lifts his head and pushes the curly fringe of bangs out of his eyes. He shrewdly eyes John before answering "Quarters. Tomorrow, bridge."
"Yes, after we both see the barber. I assume you have one aboard, Admiral?" John enquires.
"Yes, Ambassador Watson. I will make the appointments for you." The ping of the lift stopping at their level interrupts him. Sherlock moves out of the lift in two strides and heads down the corridor. "Have a good night and enjoy some down time, John. You two have been roughing it for a while. The water will be piping hot."
John gives Mycroft a small smile and follows Sherlock. He does not run, though he does step quickly and precisely down the corridor, the only sound now is their footsteps and the faint whine of the lift taking Mycroft to the bridge. He catches up with the captain just as Sherlock puts his broad palm flat against what at first appears to be a solid wall. In an instant, a red lighted pad can be easily discerned from the gray color around it. There is a racially unrecognizable female voice "Welcome home, Captain Holmes" and the same soft whoosh as the door opens and then mutely closes behind them. Sherlock turns towards John, pushing into his personal bubble and forcing him against the wall that is now a wall again. One of Sherlock's hands is above John's head and he leans his entire body against his lover. John's runs his hands over Sherlock's torso, easily reached by quickly finishing opening Sherlock's uniform top. They roll their hips together, both thoroughly enjoying the impromptu snog but too exhausted from two days of space travel to do much more.
Finally, they separate, though they do not move away from each other. John rests his arms on Sherlock's lean hips, gently brushing the tops of the captain's black trousers with his thumbs. Sherlock sighs and leans his head to John's shoulder. He mutters something incoherent.
"I'm sorry, I did not understand." John slips his fingers through the captain's mad locks. Another sigh slips past the lips of the taller man, gently tickling against John's jaw. John rests his fingers against Sherlock's nape; he really can't help it that they continue to fiddle with those amazing curls.
Sherlock turns his head slightly towards John to make himself clearer. "I don't want to be here: on this ship, again, John."
Ah. "I understand. Perhaps we can find something to occupy ourselves for a bit before sleeping?" Sherlock gives him a feline glare, then his eyes widen and his entire expression softens. "Bath?" He asks. John nods the affirmative, and then reconsiders.
"How is that possible?" He remembers full well that there were no actually bathtubs on the captain's ship, only shower stalls.
Sherlock actually looks happy as he grabs John's hand and leads him to a door that is apparently the lavatory. Like every other door on the ship, it slides open to let them pass through. "My brother does have his uses."
John takes a long look around and whistles under his breath. The lavatory is positively huge. There is a gold and white basin that looks suspiciously like real marble from earth, a matching commode and an abso-fucking-lutely huge bathtub. Sherlock flips the golden taps and a torrent of steaming water pours from them. John is almost buzzing with joy at seeing the hot water as he peels of his own uniform. Sometimes he wears a shirt that matches Sherlock's, though today he chose a warm russet brown to pair with his snug black trousers.
Sherlock does an achingly slow strip tease and John forgets he's still wearing his boots. He starts to move forward before he realizes he has managed to hobble himself. It is worth the extra few seconds to watch his pale, lean, lover step into the bathtub and then submerse his sinewy self, his eyes closing with pleasure. John shakes out of his daydream and finally manages to get it together to join him. He gets into the tub opposite Sherlock, then copies the other man and rests his head against the cool, smooth material that is most definitely real Earth marble. They stretch their legs out towards the center of the tub; John's fitting neatly between Sherlock's. The pressure is comforting; as hard as they work together, it is wonderful to find time to relax with one another.
Steam fogs the room, frosting the gilded mirror over the basin and actually causing dewy drops to cling to their eyelashes. Sherlock gently touches John's face with his index finger, positively staring at the little drop of moisture that had just clung to the golden fringe of John's eyelid. John smiles lazily up at his lover in return. Sherlock takes that as an invitation and soon they are kissing slowly and deeply, their bodies gently swaying in the warm water like a forest of kelp in the ocean.
Good Morning, Ambassador Watson.
Good Morning, Captain Holmes.
John groggily searches for the stupid com-screen with one hand; upon finding it, he flings it across the room and smiles sleepily when it smashes against the far wall. Next to him, Sherlock curls in closer, his face nestled into the crook of John's arm. John closes his eyes. His breathing starts to level out again and sleep begins to creep back in.
So of course there's the sound of the door opening and a rather pompous throat clearing. And now there is a fully-dressed Admiral standing at the foot of the bed where John is cuddled with said Admiral's baby brother. Ah yes. It's going to be one of those days. John's heart is racing; he is ready for a fight. John has been with Sherlock for quite some time now. He has worked for the Admiral, and was even given his present title by the same man. He has never, until this moment, flaunted his relationship with Sherlock to the Admiral. So, he is a little beside himself at present. He is awfully comfortable, though.
Sherlock, however, figures it all out by merely opening one eye. "Fuck off." He growls then expertly burrows back under the blanket. He actually enjoys the feeling of the little vibrations that run through John's torso when he chuckles to himself at Sherlock's belligerence. Mycroft sighs. He moves away from the bed and then returns with one of the cushy mustard-yellow armchairs from the sitting area. He plants himself in the chair, crosses his arms, and proceeds to wait them out.
"This is ridiculous." John states to no one in particular.
"You two cannot simply lounge around all day. You have things to do. Sherlock, you need to choose a new crew…"
Sherlock cuts him off by launching himself upward in the bed so hard it shakes. John is amazed at how quickly his lover went from sleepy/happy/drowsy to alert and ready to kill. He then crosses his arms, unintentionally copying his brother. "No." He says forcefully to the ceiling.
Oh lords, John thinks. He extracts himself from the covers and climbs out of bed, deciding that if Mycroft is going to ignore the fact he is butt naked, he will, too. He shakes his head as he closes the door of the lavatory behind him.
"No, Mycroft. I will not work with a crew. Not again. All I need is John." Sherlock's eyes are narrowed and he is looking at the Admiral as if trying to figure out a thousand ways to skewer him on a sword; his swords or at least one of them, anyway.
"Sherlock, I would not ask it of you if I was not concerned. Now you know that!" Mycroft leans forward towards his brother, quite used to normally having his commands followed to the letter. Except by Sherlock. It's going to be a long day. "Listen to me, brother. Just this once. I have let you walk into danger alone many times; I let you deal with the issues of the Time Gate virtually alone…"
Sherlock growls again. "John was there."
"Yes, the last time. I do not dispute that fact. Pandora is different, Sherlock. Probably the most unique place I have sent you yet. The majority of your time there will be spent on doing the research that you love so much." He pauses, carefully noting the expression of listening-but-don't-want-you-to-know-it plastered on the captain's face; it reminds Mycroft forcefully of Sherlock at age five. He really does understand Sherlock's lack of desire to pick another crew after what happened with those whom he thought were loyal to him during the problems with the Time Gate. He refuses to budge on this, though.
"Sherlock, take a small crew. Enough so that there will be back-up for you and John. I cannot give you too many details now; please just trust me." Mycroft drops his voice an octave, a similar maneuver that the captain uses when he wants something from John. He gently cards his elegant fingers through his dark chestnut coif.
The captain huffs and flails his legs under the heavy brown blanket. "Fine. You allow John to choose the crew."
"Sherlock that is hardly protocol…"
"Then kindly allow us to borrow a shuttle pod and we will be on our way."
The Admiral is now stuck between a rock and hard place. He has invited extra beings aboard the Proto-Tethys in the hopes that some of them will meet the captain's rather high expectations in a crew. Too many plans will be destroyed for this to end before it even begins. "Fine, Sherlock. Tell the Ambassador that he has three days starting tomorrow. I am assuming you will oversee all of his decisions?"
"Yes, Mycroft." Sherlock states with the petulant tone of a teenager who has discovered that he knows everything about the galaxy around him and no one is ever going to tell him otherwise.
"Excellent. I will see you soon. I do have other things to do besides argue with you." Mycroft returns the armchair to its original place. As he steps through the entryway, he hears "could have fooled me." He just shakes his head wearily.